


how to ask for forgiveness

by allthatsleftbehind



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthatsleftbehind/pseuds/allthatsleftbehind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fuck, Regina," you say, and she chuckles, that throaty laugh that sets your insides on fire in the best possible way. "I want you," you tell her again. </p><p>"Take me," she says — and she doesn't need to ask you twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Lust

  
Darkness cannot exist without light, and the opposite is true, as well. You know the two of you are the only ones who really understand that, and not for the first time you're full of regret for the pain you've caused her. You've hurt others, sure, but her — that's the one that claws at you most. A trip to the Underworld that she followed you on blindly, by your side 100 percent in all the ways you ignored for so long. Too long? You don't know. But you're back in Storybrooke, sitting on her couch, and she's bringing you scotch in a crystal glass that catches the light and reflects in her eyes as she stands above you. All you can smell is the warm milkiness of her skin, the faint leftover perfume of some flower or another — jasmine? gardenia ? you don't know and you don't care, but it's very Regina — and you set the glass down and reach your hand up to circle your fingers around her small wrist, holding on for life. You don't know what you're doing, only that you need to feel the pulse of her, the warm beating heart of her, so that you can stop holding your breath and steeling yourself against some unknown apocalypse.

Her breath catches slightly and you look up at her, your eyes pleading, asking, "Please?" though you're not sure what for. But she understands — she always does, and isn't that the thing? Isn't that what you've been chasing all these years? She sits down beside you, her gaze measured and determined to say nothing and hear you out, even though you don't know where to begin. Sorry doesn't cut it, and you know that, but it isn't what she wants and you know that, too.

"Regina, I..." Your voice breaks, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as you reach for the words, any words.

She waits, her gaze flicking across your face, scanning your features as if committing them to memory: from your jawline to your lips to your nose and eyes and back again. You're trying, she can see that. 

"Regina —"

"Emma."

She stops you cold, cupping a warm palm to your cheek suddenly, and you shudder, your face leaning into her touch as if you were sinking into the softest down. You gaze at her, ashamed, and on her face you read some grand hurricane of emotions that you can only piece together as they swirl by in the wind — anger, sadness, regret... hope?

And before you can stop yourself, you're moving closer and you're kissing her, the soft deep pink of her lips moving against yours finally, hungrily, and you're telling her everything you don't have words for with your tongue, sliding it into her mouth before pulling away to run it along the length of her neck, breathing hot and hard against her ear, and her heart quickens to the point that you can feel it through her skin.

It gives you hope, sets your own pulse even more alight and your hands are in her hair and my God, she's touching you back, gripping her fingertips into your back like she's never held anything so precious, like you might slip away at any moment. You don't deserve this, you don't deserve her, not after everything, but you've wanted her for so long and never realized, and so you take what she so willingly gives greedily.

"Emma," she murmurs as you kiss along her jawline, pulling her head back by the hair to expose that tender spot to you better.

You hum something that sounds like an "mmhmm" but you don't stop, can't stop, not if you're ever going to show her how sorry you are, how much you want her, how beautiful she is, how worth it, worth this whole world. You trail your hand around her waist, tickling your fingertips beneath the hem of her shirt and along her hard stomach but you never take your mouth off hers, not for a second. You find the spot — you know it in the way the slightest gasp escapes her and her grip suddenly tightens — and my God, she's so beautiful.

Beneath Regina's thin silk blouse, her nipples stand at attention and her breath threads itself erratically around your kisses but she's pulling away, pulling back, and you're more terrified than you've ever been.

But she's not walking away. Instead, she's looking at you, her lips swollen, her eyes mirthful, full of desire, and yet uncertain. She sighs, her chest rising and falling with the weight of so many exhausting years, and must see the fear in your eyes because she reaches for your hand and threads her fingers through yours, squeezing tightly.

"Emma," she begins again, and the way she says your name is like coming home, and why did it take you five years to get here? Why did you put everyone through so much when the whole world was right in front of you this whole time? You notice every inch of her, the soft curves of her face, that gorgeous scar above her lip, the curl of her eyelashes, and you need it because it's the only thing that's real and that scares you to death.

"I want you," you say, and her eyes flutter closed. "Regina, I want you," you say again, louder this time and with intent. "I want you. Look at me, I want you."

You lift her chin with your free hand and she opens her eyes, searching yours, and for a minute you wonder if she can ever forgive you, but she leans forward again, kissing you deeply, pushing your hair behind your ear and running her fingertips along your skin. Then she takes your hand and places it over her heart and presses it there, willing you to hear the things she has no words for, either.

She nods once, an invitation, and you can't wait any longer.

You push her back against the couch with force, sliding your leg between her thighs and pressing it firmly against the warmest part of her and her breaths deepen, her eyes become feral with pent up lust, and she looks so beautiful you could scream. After everything you've been through, after all you've lost, she's here and she's under you and you'll never let her go again.

Her hair falls in waves around her head and she licks her lips, staring up at you in what almost seems like a dare. You knew she had this in her, this playfulness, but you've never seen it in action, reserved just for you. It's almost as if nothing else had happened — even though it has and you know it and you can't ignore it. You will your brain to shut up.

You pull your shirt off over your head before beginning to unbutton hers. The sight of her there, black lace bra and smooth olive skin pulled taut over delicate ribs, is enough to undo you, and you lower your mouth to hers before working your way down, tonguing along her collarbone and down between her breasts. You have to admit: Regina's skin is a thing of wonder, every bit the queen. Sliding the straps of her bra down her shoulders, you release a nipple from the fabric hiding it and quickly take it in your mouth, pulling, sucking, feeling Regina squirm beneath you with her hands tangled in your hair.

"Emma," she gasps, and she's reaching up for your jeans, struggling with the button, but you push her hands away. This is your offering, your apology, and you will give it completely.

"No," you tell her, and she understands. You push your leg higher between hers and feel the wetness there, and you need to feel her, taste her, inhale the living sea water scent of her. You need to show her how stupid you've been, how sorry you are, how reverently you'll worship her for the rest of your days, the past be damned.

You hike her skirt higher and run your fingertips across the damp fabric — black lace, of course — and there is no going back, not now. You look up at her and she's biting her lip and you want her so badly that you might just combust if you don't have all of her soon, now and forever.

"Fuck, Regina," you say, and she chuckles, that throaty laugh that sets your insides on fire in the best possible way. "I want you," you tell her again.

"Take me," she says — and she doesn't need to ask you twice.


	2. Day 2: Gluttony

  
She eats like a child, and that in and of itself is a cliche because so much of her is juvenile. You used to mind — at least that's what you told yourself — but that seems a lifetime ago. Now, if you're being honest with yourself, you depend on it, but you don't like being too honest with yourself too often. Sometimes she acts younger than the son you share, particularly at the dinner table, just as she's doing right this second. You've made a mushroom risotto and she's shoveling it in her mouth in overflowing spoonfuls, intermittently tearing a chunk of crusty bread from a communal plate and dipping it into her bowl before shoveling that in, too.

If it were anyone else, you'd be disgusted. But this is Emma Swan we're talking about, and the way she's eating with abandon, completely oblivious to your amused gaze, somehow makes her all the more endearing, though you'd never admit that to her. Since when did that happen? She stops only long enough to say something that makes Henry laugh and then she's back to refilling her spoon. To look at her, you don't know where she puts it all. She's lean, sinewy, the hard ripples of her biceps hidden tonight beneath her chunky grey sweater... you really are losing it. 

"Emma," you start, planning to tell her to slow down, but when she looks up at you, her green eyes alive and dancing with — is that happiness? — you change your track mid-sentence. "There's more in the kitchen," you finish, and her smile lights up a million watts.

"You'll have to throw it in some Tupperware for me, Regina. I have it on good authority that you made pie for dessert, and I've gotta save room," she says, winking at Henry. She leans back in her chair, balancing it on two legs and holding onto the table with a free hand — so much like a child, this woman — and patting her stomach with the other.

Henry laughs and starts to push his own chair back in imitation, but you put a stop to it — you'd prefer to preserve your furniture and avoid a trip to Storybrooke General tonight. "Henry Daniel Mills, chair on all four legs," you say with authority. Then, looking at Emma, "You too, Miss Swan."

"Aw, man!" they say in unison, and you're struck by them, your son and his other mother — _your Emma_? — and just how similar they are. Your heart goes soft, drops and skips several beats, but you catch yourself, cluck your tongue and rise from the table, collecting dishes to take to the kitchen. Emma looks up at you as she hands you her plate and you give her one of those half smiles that even you don't know the meaning of anymore, and she gulps, returning it.

"I can help with that!" she calls from the other room when you're already halfway through washing the dishes. Before you can respond, you feel her there behind you, the heat radiating from her body and right against your back, and why has your breathing suddenly gone so shallow? She's not moving and you don't know why she's there, but the feeling is overwhelming and if you don't move now... 

You wiggle out from in front of her, turning around and wiping your hands on a tea towel. "All finished!" you tell her, almost too casually. You move quickly to the counter to reach for the pie, and tilt your head towards the freezer, hoping she'll take the hint. She does.

"Ooh, vanilla ice cream with the flecks in it!" she says, pulling the container from the freezer and pulling off the lid. You smirk, telling her they're called vanilla beans, but her finger is already scooping inside and she's licking the ice cream off before dipping it back in. A giant child, though you're pretty sure Henry never tried such a move.

"Ooh, can I try, Ma?" Henry asks as he walks into the kitchen, walking over to Emma and the ice cream. You rescue the carton from her hand before he can get there, arching an eyebrow in Emma's direction before patting your son on the head.

"Think again," you tell him. "Grab the pie and set the table please, Henry." He obeys without argument, but not before sharing a crinkle-nose grin with Emma, who's looking like a lost puppy without that carton of ice cream. You feel a sudden urge to kiss her and shake it off — what has gotten into you? — but when she looks at you, it's as if she knows exactly what you're thinking... and she could be thinking the same thing.

"We use bowls and spoons here, Emma," you admonish her, pulling them from the counter in front of you and placing them in her hands as you speak. She steps closer as your hands brush, a glint of mischief in her eye, and tells you to live a little.

"By eating ice cream out of the carton... with my hands?" You're teasing one another, that old familiar dance, and it gives you life. You've come to depend on this back and forth, once so full of malice and now a display of love and comfort. The way she looks at you these days, right this second, makes you feel like —

"Moms! The pie!" Henry shouts from the dining room, and you both snap back into attention.

"Coming!" Emma calls in response. She's the first to turn on her heel to head to the other room, but not before she steps dangerously closer and whispers something you can't believe you're hearing.

"If you don't like that idea, there are other things you can do with your hands."


	3. Day 3: Greed

  
You've always wanted it all, but you're not quite sure when you started believing you could have it — maybe? maybe — and the longing for it, for everything, dominates your thoughts most days. Your health is good — all those bear claws don't seem to have caught up with you just yet — you've got a stable job, your parents, your son, your... Regina? Not your Regina, not really. Not yet, anyway. But you want her, all of her, even if it did take you five years and a literal trip to hell to figure it out.

You're getting there. There was that drunken kiss on your birthday, when you'd hung around the mansion late into the night, drinking Regina's homemade cider and laughing about what now feels like nothing but you're sure was hilarious then. She'd given you a gift — a perfectly wrapped box that held a ridiculously gorgeous (not to mention expensive) cashmere sweater. She wanted you to try it on and you wanted to try her on so you compromised and leaned forward and pressed your lips to hers, pulling her by the waist against you in the dimly lit study and greedily taking the breath from her lungs and offering your own in return.

You couldn't face her for three days after, and then she turned up at the station at quarter past five on a Tuesday night, knowing you'd still be there because... well, because you were avoiding her, and she'd probably already checked Granny's and the loft. Just watching her walk in the room set your heart racing. You felt like a teenager, sweaty-palmed and almost sick with desire, and the way she sauntered over in those black heels and leaned against your desk, raising her eyebrow as she looked at you with a mix of annoyance and amusement wasn't really doing anything to help matters. You stammered, tried to gather your coat to make a getaway, but you hoped she'd give you a reason to stay and she did. It's her mouth that met your first this time, and she gave and gave until you had her pinned against your desk, your hands roaming her body and begging for purchase. Then your mother called. Six times. Because of course she did.

The last time was three days ago, and you brought lunch to her office: salad, sparkling water, a slice of strawberry cheesecake for yourself, though you did ask for two forks. You ate silently, but not uncomfortably, until she surprised you by saying your name. There was a tenderness there that you'd noticed once or twice before, but this time it pulled at you, muddled your insides into one big mushy mess, and you forgot to breathe for a few seconds. She wanted to talk about this, what's between you, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She's a queen, remember, and she's better than these fumbling encounters, and you don't disagree.

Which is why you're here now. You've spent all day thinking about what you can say, which words are the best to convey how you're feeling, which is "I want you so badly I could scream and if I don't have you now, completely, today, tomorrow, and forever, I don't want to keep living anymore because you're home and you're mine and I don't care how selfish or greedy that sounds because we've earned this." You're so consumed by need that you just need her to say she's yours, all yours, and you can figure out the rest later. You know you can make her happy.

She closes the door of the study behind her and hands you a glass. Not cider, something stronger — she must sense that you need courage. She wants to know what you're doing, but she already knows, and you do, too. She wants you to give voice to it, and you want to run, to get your coat and walk out the door and get as far away from this, all these feelings, as you possibly can, because once you say them, they're even more real than they already are, and what if you lose her? This whole world could go to flames and you'd survive but if she's gone, there's nothing left for you in this life or any other.

And so you vow to try.

"For so long I told myself that everything I did as for Henry, was for our son. And it was, and it is, but that's not... it's not the truth, Regina. Because Henry is you, and you're... you're this incredibly complicated, frustrating, maddening woman and I... I don't know, I don't think I believe in happy endings but I look at you and I think maybe... I think it could be possible. If I had you, every day, fully, I —"

You're rambling, and you know it, and when you manage to lift your gaze to meet hers, her expression is nearly unreadable. Nearly, but you know her. She's scared, but she's relieved. She's... happy.

"Emma," she stops you, and you swallow hard. "You want to do this? Really? All in?"

"All in," you respond before she can even finish the question, your palms itching for the feeling of her skin beneath them, and when she smiles — not just any smile, but that radiant, beaming smile that takes over her whole face — you can't stay away from her any longer.

You move to her side and slide your hands around her waist, and she pushes a stray wisp of blonde hair behind your ear, pressing her forehead against yours. Her breath has quickened along with yours, and this is it, this is the moment you have everything. You press your palm into the crux of her lower back so that she's flat against you, and you take completely, totally, but oh, you give, too.


End file.
